


Feedback

by MeatyTriangle (goresque)



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Childhood Sexual Abuse, Fix-It, M/M, Past Abuse, Psychological Horror, Recovery, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-26
Updated: 2019-04-26
Packaged: 2020-02-04 19:29:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18611014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goresque/pseuds/MeatyTriangle
Summary: An AU in which Stan Pines arrives in Gravity Falls two years before Ford sends a postcard. He’s fresh out of the gutter, and holding back a lot of hurt.They learn to live with it together.Until Bill shows up, at least.





	Feedback

Ford hears the car engine rumbling to a halt long before he hears the uneven footsteps in the snow outside. He’s already peeking out the front door peephole, only to curse that he hasn’t repaired the porch light yet. Stanford can’t identify the figure in a thick, fur lined coat, and that itself is enough for him to pick up the crossbow that he keeps near the door for exactly this purpose. You can never be too careful in Gravity Falls- especially after all he’s discovered.

Ford yanks the door before the figure outside can knock. “Who are you and why are you here?” he barks out, leveling the crossbow. The man on his doorstep jumps back, slipping off the stair and landing ass backwards in the snow. Unhooded, Ford is looking at a familiar face gone glassy with fear and surprise. That fear morphs rapidly into anger; Stanley scowls at him.

“I can always count on you for a warm welcome.” Stanley is pretending he’s not shaking, despite how he pulls his threadbare coat tighter around himself. Ford takes notice of the dried blood around his knuckles under the fingerless gloves.

“Stanley,” Ford breathes out, before he can even think about what to say. The crossbow comes down. Just saying his brother’s name brings something hard rising up his throat. He’s not sure what it is; a part of him wants it to be anger, but further observation leaves him guilty for wanting.

Stanley’s fingers are shaking in fists, and his lips looking positively blue against his uneven five o’clock shadow. There’s a dullness to brown eyes that makes Ford feel that knot in his throat drop down, down, down, because there’s too much pupil. The falling snow has already dusted him, half a boot obscured in a snow pile from where he fell. Ford is reminded if he doesn’t do  _ something _ , then Stanley is going to be buried in the snow.

Crossbow discarded, Ford descends the stairs and offers his hand to his brother. Stanley hesitates to take it, his face twisting into something painful as he looks Ford in the eyes. But he does. He grips his brother so tight there’s a moment Ford thinks that he might be pulled down instead.

As soon as Stanley is on his feet he’s got his arms around Ford, whole body shivering and fingers digging into Ford’s back. He’s not sure how to respond.

So he doesn’t. 

That makes the heavy knot in his stomach tremble with guilt.

Stanley releases him with a shuddering breath, and then an uncomfortable laugh, “Not huggin’ you or anything mushy like that. Just can’t stand great s’all. It’s been a long road trip.”

Ford helps Stanley into the shack and onto the couch, where Ford himself usually ends up sleeping most nights. Stanley must have been using whatever strength he had left to stay awake, because as soon as he’s horizontal he closes his eyes and starts snoring. Ford does his best to cover him in thick blankets, noticing the shakes continue even after Stan has warmed up.

* * *

He’s managed to keep the knot from expanding. Ford watches his brother from the doorway of his lab. Stanley has never been quiet at anything he did, sleeping no exception. Stanley’s paranoid murmurs offer a welcome distraction from the steely cold spreading through his chest.

Ford doesn’t know how to handle this. It’s not scientific, he can’t dissect it. It’s raw emotion, cold and hot at the same time crawling under his skin. He’s more relieved to see his brother than when he’d first opened the door; he doesn’t have any more room for disdain. 

He wants so badly to be angry. But he’s not.

Stanley is a wreck, that is what Ford tries to focus on. Stanley had sought him out looking like he’d just rolled out of the gutter, cheeks gaunt and bandages around his knuckles. Ford hears the name Rico, something about “the money” and “the stuff” featured frequently in his muttering. There more than just that. Sometimes Ford hears his own name, and more than once he hears his brother cry out for their mother. The knot in Ford’s chest weighs him down.

Stanley is in a bad enough way that Ford knows he wouldn’t have come if it were any different. Bad enough that Stanley would seek him out after their estrangement after so many years. Ford had honestly thought he would never see his brother again.

Ford rises to his feet more abruptly than he intended. He recovers from his lightheadedness gracefully enough to decide he needs some water. He makes Stanley a cup as well, and sets it next to the couch.

He takes the time to tuck himself into his barely used bed that’s crowded with his research papers, sticky notes, and piles of (allegedly) clean laundry. He settles his body just right, and closes his eyes.

* * *

Ford doesn’t fall asleep until four in the morning.

He dreams of sailing around world with Stanley; his six fingered hands at the wheel of the Stan O’ War, and Stan behind him. One hand’s on his hip and the other is laid over top of Ford’s larger one. 

Ford feels the spray of the ocean as he turns his head to see his brother. Stanley’s body is inky and black, wavering against Ford’s back as their heads lean in, temple to temple. There’s a spark between them that rattles Ford to his bones.

Right before he wakes up, Ford realizes he’s been sailing with his own shadow.

* * *

It’s 6:49 AM when Ford opens his eyes. He doesn’t close them again that night.

* * *

Stanley sleeps for most of two days. He wakes up every several hours parched and hoarse, stays conscious just long enough to beg to be hydrated and guzzle down water before he passes out again. 

“Ford?” 

He’s in the kitchen when he hears it. Ford pours a cup of coffee before he goes to meet Stan in the foyer, finding him sitting up with his legs tangled in countless blankets.

“You’re awake,” Ford says, unsure why there’s a butterfly of excitement in his stomach. It finally hits him that Stanley is  _ here. _ Not just his shell, detoxing on the couch, but  _ here _ . Ford feels like some long unfinished puzzle in his body has found the missing piece, and he is loathe to think that he was anything less without Stan. 

“For good this time,” Stan croaks, a nervous laugh coming out. He greedily takes the coffee from Ford and drinks without hesitation. Two gulps in has him scowling, and promptly hands it back. “That’s some bitch coffee ya got there, Sixer. Thought you knew how I liked it.”

“That’s because it wasn’t for you,” Ford snaps, anger rising in his throat like the long forgotten knot. He takes his sweet and creamy coffee back into the kitchen, and  _ for some reason _ pours Stan a cup. Just how he likes. 

Ford tries to reason that it’s just because of the drugs, right this moment anyway. Stan has never been terribly considerate. Not in terms of manners, at least. Ford folds away the emotion for a later date. He has to take advantage of Stan’s lucidity now and have a serious talk with him. 

The coffee is exchanged without words and Ford takes a seat on the couch, holding his coffee between his thighs. He knows Stanley is looking at him. Smiling even. It’s been so long since he’s seen it that he doesn’t know if it’s genuine, or that false bravado he knows keeps Stanley stitched together. 

“Stanley,” he says, not too loud. He looks away from his coffee, brow furrowed, to see Stanley staring at him with rapt attention. “I need to ask you some things.”

“Shoot, Sixer.” Though he gives permission, Ford can see that Stanley isn’t excited about giving answers. He hides behind his coffee cup, his hand flexing next to him. 

“Would anyone have followed you here? Anyone at all? Police? Gangs? Crime syndicates?” As Ford speaks, the words come out faster, and harsher. Stanley flinches away, and Ford’s gut clenches in guilt. 

“Nah, Sixer. If they are looking for me, they’re looking for a guy named Forrest Tinsly.” Stan stares down into his coffee. Though his eyes have returned to normal, pupils leaving room for chocolate brown to color the edges, they still look dull. Ford wonders what they’ve seen since they’ve been apart. 

“Who is Rico?”

Ford watches Stanley seize up in fear, eyes going wide. His grip on his coffee goes slack, and it ends up spilling over the wooden floors as he jumps to his feet. “Where’d you hear that name?”

“It’s hard to get around the house without hearing it, with all the talking you do in your sleep,” Ford says, gaze going hard. He ignores the coffee for now, there will be time to clean it up after. “Sit down, Stanley. Who is he?”

Stan doesn’t sit down immediately, nor answer. It takes him a minute to calm his nerves, before he finally lowers his body back onto the couch. Ford hears his brother’s back pop, and Stan looks blissful for only a moment. Then, 

“Just a guy, alright? I’m a fuck-up. We all know it. Pops was right about me. Is that what you want to hear? I’ve spent the last ten years bouncing around the world, going to prison, fighting in gangs, doing drugs, suc-“ Stanley halts, the abruptness making Ford’s brow come together. “Look, I’ve been doing bad shit, okay? Rico’s just the guy I go through to get the smack. I kept the cash and-”

“ _ Heroin?” _ Ford sees red. It’s his turn to jump to his feet, kicking Stan’s forgotten coffee mug in his blind fury. “You’ve been doing  _ heroin? _ Are you insane? I knew you were an  _ idiot _ , Stanley, but this is- I thought-“ 

Ford is spinning, waving his hands and stomping, the anger painted through his body’s wild movements. He only stops when he sees Stanley has covered his face. He won’t look at him. Ford’s body loses the grasp it has on his emotions, and he sinks back down onto the couch.

Empathy doesn’t come naturally to him. Especially when it’s his brother; the man who ruined his chances to his dream school, the person who never looked past a pipe dream, who never cracked under the discipline of their upbringing. 

Ford supposes it’s no surprise Stanley ended up like this. 

“Why?” he asks instead, figuring if Stanley needs help now then he should give it. Stanley came all this way, found him through god knows how, and- “Wait. How did you find me?”

Stanley jumps at the chance to answer a different question. “Found an article ‘bout your research here. Didn’t say your name, but it was clear enough. What other nerd gets twelve PHDs? It mentioned this town and here I am. Drove over from Chicago the past three days. When I came into town I just asked about an antisocial guy with twelve fingers. Nice diner lady pointed me here.”

It takes Ford a moment to realize that Stanley had been so desperate to find him he’d followed a wayward article without a name. There’s a hollow cavern in his stomach, scraped out to make room for the cold seeping through his skin. Stanley has been through hell, and he’s finally come out the other end. 

“Stanley…” Ford reaches out to touch his brother, a craving for touch he hasn’t felt in years. Why would he need another human being? He’s always considered himself above such needless instincts. But with Stanley right beside him it’s different- Stanley is his twin, his second half. It makes him realize how lonely he’s been. What will it feel like, after so many years apart?

He doesn’t get to test his hypothesis. Stanley turns away and wraps his arms around himself, and Ford is struck by how he’s still in the same clothes since he arrived. The coat is thin, not because of manufacturing, but through use. It’s stained with too many different fluids, the likes of which Ford isn’t sure he could ever decipher. 

“Stanley… Why did you turn to drugs?”

Stan looks at him like he’s stupid. He’s scowling again, not even pretending to laugh. “Why the fuck do you think? S’not all fancy living in a magical forest with a million in college money. Not everybody sleeps in a cushy bed every night, Stanford.”

Hearing his full name from Stan jars him out of his own mind. Ford is queasy as Stan curls further into himself, turning his shoulder to hide. There’s hurt there, under the false confidence. He can see it bubbling, coming to a boil. Stan can only be pushed so hard. 

He doesn’t say anything. Ford puts a six fingered hand on Stanley’s knee and keeps it there, despite how his brother tries to pull away. “You can stay here, Stanley. For the month. After that, we’ll negotiate.” 

At first Ford thinks Stan will be angry that there is a time limit upon his stay. Instead, Stan turns and throws his arms around him. 

“Ya won’t regret it, Sixer. I’ll make it worth your while.”

Ford really hopes Stanley is right. 

* * *

Having Stan around isn’t so bad. Beneficial, even.

In just a week he’s done the dishes, hung the laundry, regularly cooked for Ford, and even gone out to get groceries and supplies. Ford doesn’t see him much for the first week, but he hears Stanley watching television in the foyer from his lab during the day. If the television is off, he assumes Stanley is out. It’s bizarre having someone else in the house.

Ford isn’t sure if he can trust this behavior, and more than that he realizes he’s afraid to get too close again. Stanley is doing his best, he knows, but he also knows it’s only a matter of time. Stanley is a creature of habit, and very few of his habits are healthy.

* * *

It’s day ten when Ford first sees the hiccup. 

Stan is drunk, and it’s an ungodly hour. Ford isn’t asleep, far too engrossed in his research (a dead end again, he thinks furiously), but it’s late and Stan is tromping around upstairs. The front door opens and slams shut, Stan is laughing and stumbling.

It takes until he hears a second voice to put together that there’s two sets of feet above his head. 

Rage comes over him. Ford has never felt any emotion like he’s feeling now, except for perhaps the past circumstances of the bone crushing despair of his estrangement from Stanley. He stomps up the stairs from the basement, prepared to throw both his brother and his “guest” out.

_ “Shhh. My- my big brother’s downstairs. Dunno if he’s sleepin’- prolly not. Gotta make this real quick ‘n quiet.”  _

Ford halts, hand on the doorknob. Just hearing his brother’s voice quiets the rage, and instead Ford thinks about how this could all be a misunderstanding. He hopes it is.

Ford twists the knob slowly, cracking the door open. In the dim light he can see Stanley on the couch, some stranger laid out under his legs. Stan is facing away from the basement door, and his guest is too enamoured with touching his sides and his thighs to notice the light sweeping through from the hall. 

It’s a man, Ford realizes with some surprise, as Stanley leans down to kiss him. His hands are busy, pulling open buttons and stuffing themselves down pants. Ford isn’t sure how to handle the information that Stanley has brought home a man to his house, and is planning on dirty, quick sex on his couch. And he hasn’t stopped it from happening yet.

He’s distracted from his thoughts by more talk. Whoever the stranger is, he’s not talking loud enough for Ford to hear- But Stanley is. 

_ “Don’t worry ‘bout it, I’m an expert. My pops used to say this is all my big mouth was good for.” _

That has Ford’s stomach rolling as he contemplates the statement. There’s a murmur from the stranger, and Stan is laughing quietly. It’s not real, Ford assesses. It’s that nervous laughter that Stanley uses to distract people.

_ “Thought you said you liked fucked up.” _ More murmuring. Stan’s voice changes suddenly,  _ “You ever ask me to do that again and I’ll bite yer fuckin’ dick off? Ya got it?” _

Whatever has Stan threatening is over immediately. The stranger doesn’t seem keen on angering him. 

And then Stan is all over him, mouth on the stranger’s opening body, settling down between his legs and drawing out low moans. Heat flushes to Ford’s cheeks, watching as Stanley’s mouth slides down on something obvious, wet and slick sounding. 

That’s when it hits him he’s spying on his brother. He’s watching his brother give a stranger oral sex, hiding behind a door like a child sneaking out of bed.

More damning than that, he’s hard.

Stanley’s got the guy moaning out, jerking his hips and panting louder than he’s been talking. Ford averts his eyes, instead focusing on Stan, hidden between the stranger’s legs. His eyes glaze over as he remembers something similar in the past, before Stan had been kicked out; Ford hiding in the closet from what he’d thought had been his drunk father stomping down the hall. Stan and his girlfriend at the time stumbled in instead, and proceeded to have make-up sex on the bunk.

This time is different. When Stan rises up again, kicking his pants off, he’s the one straddling the stranger’s hips and groaning as he sinks down in his lap. The couch creaks, and Stan hushes the stranger with a muted laugh.

Ford tries not to watch Stan ride the stranger; he fails. He watches Stan take the stranger’s cock with an eagerness he envies. He’s unsure why he envies it. As far as he knows he’s never had fantasies about men, nor women for that matter. Back when they were children, Stan hadn’t ever given men a passing glance either. If he did, he’d never said anything about it.

Soon enough, Stan shouts, his body trembling above the stranger. Ford slowly closes the door, unable to watch anymore debauchery. He feels dirty, ashamed at watching his brother perform coitus with a stranger. He’s not angry. He’s too confused to be angry.

Ford descends the stairs and sinks into his desk chair and contemplates his physical reaction to what he’s seen. Perhaps it’s just an archaic reaction to sex; he likes to think himself above it, but he’s only human.

He tries not to think about it until morning, when they can talk.

* * *

Ford dreams he’s laying in his bed, with Stanley beside him. The only contact between them is their hands joined together. He sighs, closes his eyes, and smiles. 

He doesn’t think about how they’re both naked until after he wakes up.

* * *

It’s only Stan on the couch in the morning. Ford wonders why he thought it would be any different- Stan had even said that the sex had to be quick. He’s never going to sleep on that couch again

“Stanley,” he says, holding two cups of coffee. Stan groans.

When Stan is awake enough to take the coffee, Ford comes right out with it, “Next time, please ask permission before you bring strange men into my home with the intention of having sex with them.”

Stanley at least has the decency to look sheepish. “Sorry, Sixer. Didn’t really, uh… Well, think you’re smart enough ta understand why I didn’t.”

“I like to think myself rather open minded. I don’t mind if you’re a homosexual, Stanley.” Butterflies are making a home in Ford’s stomach, for some reason. He’s not sure what’s getting him so anticipated. There’s something unidentifiable raging in his gut like a windstorm. 

“Whoa, whoa,” Stan says, holding up his free hand in a motion for Ford to stop. “I’m not gay, alright? Just cause I like sausage it doesn’t mean I hate roast beef. Besides, I just meant like, easier to ask for forgiveness than permission, ya’know?”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Ford scrunches up his nose, and turns his lips down in a crooked scowl.

“I’m sayin’, you wouldn’t have the same meal every day of your life, right? Well, I extra don’t want that. I’m adventurous. In more ways than one.” Stanley hides behind his coffee mug, refusing to meet Ford’s gaze, and deliberately ignores that he’d answered the lesser important question. “Won’t happen again, Sixer. Don’t worry, he wasn’t even here half an hour.”

“You were drinking last night,” Ford says instead, sounding more accusatory. He’s staring Stan down, knowing full well if he doesn’t want his brother to feel threatened he should take a seat beside him instead. He doesn’t.

“Yeah, I went out. Had a few drinks. So what?” Stanley’s tone is surly, like he’s spoiling for a fight. Just like he used to with their father. “You want me to stop drinking too? S’that right?”

“Not in my house.” Ford is already walking away. Stanley stays put, doesn’t argue about it. He’s grateful for that.

So, Ford does the smart thing and goes back to pick another fight.

“Why did you threaten to bite his penis off?” he demands, unsure why he’s pursuing this line of question.

Stan laughs. Ford can tell it doesn’t reach his eyes. “What, you wanna know all the details? Sounds like you’ve got a lot of ‘em already. What’d ya do, hide in the closet like that time with Carla?”

“These walls are very thin,” Ford says, because they are. Stan doesn’t need to know how he knows everything he does. He’s not lying. “You were talking loud enough for both yourself and your counterpart.”

The words have Stanley thinking about it. Ford can see the wheels turning in his head, mulling over that statement. Ford is worried he’s given too much away.

“Wanted me to call him daddy. ‘M just not into that shit, ya’know? So I told him so. There. Now you know.” Stan is on his feet now, draining his cup of coffee to wash a way the venom of his words. “I won’t bring anyone else around. ‘M gonna do those dishes you never do.”

Ford lets Stanley go. Whatever has his brother so revved up and ornery isn’t something he wants to collide with his own volatile emotions right then.

Instead, he seeks comfort in his laboratory, pouring over his most recent findings in search of the next step to take. He thinks perhaps he will have to stop hiding behind his desk and go do field research soon. But that means leaving Stan alone at home. 

He decides to sleep on it.

* * *

In his dream, Stanley is in nothing but a white apron with red polka dots, pulling a pie out of the oven. There’s a steaming casserole the likes their mother used to cook on special occasions sitting on the stove.

In the dream, Stan sits them down for dinner, still in the apron, and tell him all about his day at home cooking and cleaning. For some reason he talks about being a phone psychic.

Ford catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He looks like his father.

* * *

Ford finally gets over the academic slump he’d gotten so comfortable in. He’s found a set of markings in a nearby cavern, depicting an ancient prophecy. He’s already copied the markings into his journals, and he’s prepared to pour over them for days to come.

He hadn’t realized it had gotten so late while he’d been in the cave, excavating the site. It must be past midnight. He doesn’t bother being quiet, too excited in his new find to remember he shares his foyer with his brother now. 

“Ford?” Stanley’s curled up on the couch, covering his eyes from the flashlight Ford hasn’t turned off. His words are slurred. “What’re you doin’, ya freak? S’like one AM.”

There’s a half empty tequila bottle next to the couch, and Ford’s stomach drops. 

He’s not as angry as he thought he’d be. Instead of yelling, he turns the flashlight off and has a seat at the end of the couch. Stanley pulls his feet up obligingly.

“Stanley. You’ve been drinking.”

“You’ve been sciencing,” Stan grunts like it’s a fair trade. He rests his arm over his eyes, unable to meet his brother’s gaze. “Know you said not to. Hard day, is all.”

“You do understand we have a predisposition for alcoholism, don’t you?” It was why Ford had put the rule down in the first place. He already knew Stanley struggled with addiction and substance use- there was no need to enable that. 

Stanley is quick to quip, “Your face is pre-despised to meet my fist.” before he goes silent. His eyes are puffy and red when he takes his arm away from his face. His breathing comes a little more haggard, and his voice small when he says, “Ford… Did Pops ever do anything real bad to you?”

The question catches him off guard. Ford shudders, several memories coming to mind. He perseveres, “You know he was fond of the belt.”

“Not- not a whoopin’.” Stan rises, pulling the blankets up to his chest in one fist. “Did he ever, ya’know… touch you?” 

Ford’s first reaction is disgust. He covers his mouth with one hand and looks away to keep himself under control. “Of course not, Stanley,” he says, a little too sharply. “You know our father was- was-“ There was no way to say it politely, “A belligerent drunk. But he never- he’d never sexually abuse us!” 

Ford stops himself when he sees Stanley’s fists clench in his lap. Something clicks into place in his brain. “Stanley! Are you saying that- that-“

“I didn’t say nothin’.” Stan has his face in his hand again. “Forget it, Sixer. I’m askin’ crazy shit ‘cause I’m drunk.”

Ford is witness to the way Stan clams up, both physically and emotionally. He reaches out, grasping Stan’s arm to pull him back out. He’s not going to lose this moment of honesty. As scared as he is to know the answer, there’s just too much coming together now. There’s too much of Stan finally opening up for him to let it go. 

“I shouldn’t have said that. He could have done that, Stanley, for all I know. He just never did it to me.”

Stanley scoffed. He pulls the blankets around himself tighter. “Yeah. You aren’t supposed to fuck the golden goose. Just its dumber, sweatier brother.”

The cavern in Ford’s chest opens up wider to swallow his heart. There’s something dark and slimy in his gut, whispering to him that so much now makes sense. Stan always had been a bigger target for Filbrick’s berations. Ford had chalked it up to the fact his brother always backsassed and protested punishment. That, and Ford tended to make himself scarce when Filbrick drank.

The guilt ate at him for that.

“Why didn’t Ma stop him? Did she know?” Ford whispers, unsure how to broach this new subject. This is unfamiliar territory for him. His own experiences under the hands of their alcoholic parents are considerably different than Stanley’s, and now that gap of difference has turned into a chasm with this new revelation. 

“Why do you think Ma drank so much?” Stan grunted. He’s not looking at Ford, and Ford wishes he could read what Stanley is feeling. As aggressive and physical as Stan is, he’s the much more emotional of the two of them. He’d always been the one to cry, and he was always the one who broke down in a fight first.

Ford places a hand on Stan’s knee on top of the blanket, and sighs. “Is that why you turned to drugs?”

Stan laughs, but Ford isn’t distracted. He knows it’s not funny. 

“Nah. Just needed to be able to turn the world off for a while.” Stan wrap his arms around a throw pillow and pulls it close against his chest, laying his head on it. That dullness in his brown eyes makes a little more sense. “Ya’know, had worse shit done to me than what Pops ever did, out on the streets. ‘S the same in prison. Know what ‘pulling a train’ is?” Stan doesn’t wait for Ford to answer, just shakes his head. “Guess Pops was teachin’ me lessons I needed to know anyway. Deserved it for bein’ such a shit.”

“That’s not true,” Ford snaps, without hesitating. Stanley flinches back and he already regrets it. He squeezes Stan’s knee. “Nobody deserves that, Stanley. What he did was grotesquely reprehensible. You’re strong for having overcome it.”

Stan doesn’t answer him this time, so Ford switches tactics, “I’m sorry, Stanley. That shouldn’t have happened to you. I could have- I  _ should _ have protected you from that.”

“And what? Got your ass beat instead? S’fine, Sixer. I got used to it. ‘S the only thing I’m really good for.” Stan’s pulling away from him, hand over his temple and shoulders hunched up. He holds himself, knees coming up under his arms. His back muscles are quivering like he’s holding in tears. 

That canyon in Ford’s chest is gawping, hungry and empty. He scoots closer to Stanley, and for the first time since he’s seen his brother in ten years he hugs him. 

The closeness between them fills the valley in Stanford’s chest until it’s nothing but a yawning cave. His broad hands come under Stan’s arms, twelve fingers spreading out over his back to touch every piece of Stanley that he can.

Stan loses himself to the hug without a fight. He curls his arms around Stanford’s neck, scared to let go. This is the closest they’ve been since he’s detoxed. They’d barely touched, both of them giving each other a wide berth. Now, every part of Stan is touching Ford, and the impact of knowing his brother is there, right beside him, still real, is what brings the tears.

Ford pretends not to notice, because he knows Stan hates crying in front of others. He just holds him. Every now and then he gives Stan a tighter squeeze, just to let him know he’s still there, he’s not alone. The hole inside his chest is warming, no longer so cold it puts ice in his veins. Ford loosens his grip to turn his neck and press his forehead to Stan’s temple and the hole shrinks further. Every piece of Ford fitting against Stanley puts him back together, as if he’d been missing pieces that only Stan could give him.

Stan turns too, until they’re resting their foreheads against one another. His face is red, eyes hollow and puffy, and his breaths are coming out ragged. As Stan snuffles up the snot trailing down his lip, Ford leans in closer. He’s not sure what he wants from Stan, but he knows that the space between them has to be filled.

The kiss is wetter than he anticipated. Stan’s tears make everything slippery, and he tastes like salt. Something in Ford’s brain short circuits. They’re kissing. Actually kissing, their mouths moving against each other while Stan clutches at his shoulders and puffs out little sobs between breaths. 

The hole in Ford’s chest is gone. It folds back into a neat little knot that disappears from his being with every push of Stanley’s body against his own. 

Stan’s hand comes up between them, covering his own mouth. That’s the only time Ford contemplates maybe he shouldn’t be so excited to kiss his brother. 

Stanley looks ashamed behind his palm. Ford aches to kiss him again, and reaches past Stanley to grasp his shoulder. He leans in for another; this time Stan shoves him away.

“Stan?” Ford whispers, the knot coming back. Desperately, he grasps his brother’s arm. No, no, no, no. It can’t end like this. “I thought-“

“‘M drunk,” Stanley mutters, yanking his arm away. “Didn’ mean t’kiss ya.”

Sent for a loop, Ford reaches out again.  _ Stanley _ had kissed  _ him _ ? That meant that he wasn’t the only one closing that distance. Stan felt it too, that gaping hole in his chest whenever they were too far apart. 

Ford pulls Stan’s hand away and kisses him again. Stanley tastes like tequila and cigarettes: dry, sour, and salty all in one, and Ford aches to make Stanley taste of  _ him. _

Stan’s hands come up against Ford’s petticoat, holding him tight and still. Their noses bump and Ford lets them both breathe between kisses, the both of them panting from it. Ford pulls their bodies flush together when he kisses Stan again. 

He’s desperate to close the distance. The hole only Stan can fill.

Then, Ford remembers that Stan really  _ is _ drunk, and he needs to slow down. Stan isn’t going anywhere.

“You’re drunk,” Ford says, matter of factly, “And I won’t take advantage of you.”

Stan laughs, and for once Ford thinks it might he genuine. He’s got a hand over his gut, snickering and bubbling with mirth. “Yeah. Taking advantage. Sure. You know how much dick I’ve sucked this drunk?”

Rage, filtered by the warmth in his chest, spills out of Stanford’s mouth before he can stop it. “I don’t want to know.” He slaps a six fingered hand over Stan’s mouth and squeezes. His hand is big enough to fit over most of his brother’s face. He ignores how Stan’s eyes go glassy and wide. “Because you’re not going to do it anymore. Understand? The drinking. The casual sex. It stops here, Stanley.”

Ford rises and that’s how he leaves Stan, debauched and sweaty. Ford gives him one last glance before he disappears into his room, and says, “We will discuss this further in the morning. Goodnight, Stanley.”


End file.
